Amber and Ice
by Nyeren
Summary: Drabbles and ficlets concerning Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. VI: Bled Dry. Tonks writes a letter. [Complete for now. Partially AU after DH]
1. I: Illogical

_Disclaimer: Is this really needed? I am NOT J.K. Rowling, as anyone the intellectual equivalent of a goldfish would know, there therefore I do not own the characters._

_A/N: Was inspired to write this at 10:30 pm. Fortunately it was not a school night. It's just an introspective ficlet set in the early autumn of 1997. _

She was asleep.

They'd been sitting in her flat, just talking – it was one of the rare times that they were able to relax, even if it was only a little. But the full moon was only two days past, so Remus was not as busy as he usually was. He just felt worn and exhausted and battered.

So Nymphadora had argued with him until he finally gave in and collapsed on the sofa and let her force strong cocoa down his throat. Then she charmed the sofa just a little wider, so she could stretch out beside him, and he made her move to the inside because he _knew_ that she'd manage to fall off the edge otherwise.

The sky outside the window darkened slowly into night, and Remus thought of all the protective spells that had to be placed on homes these days. Though this was an Auror's residence, after all, and Nymphadora was probably safer than most.

When she was there, of course. Which wasn't most of the time.

Remus wasn't sure when she'd fallen asleep; they had been silent for a little while, and then he asked about how Ted and Andromeda were doing, and hadn't received a reply.

He looked down at her still, calm face for several minutes, soaking in her features and the softness of her brown hair – she didn't feel quite up to morphing for no reason some days, she said, too much else to do – and thought how strange it was that he could be even a little happy this summer. It didn't seem logical. And Remus' life, oddly enough, usually was.

Peoples' intolerance for werewolves wasn't quite unfounded. It made sense that he would be generally shunned, penniless and unemployed. It made sense that men and women whose children had been savaged by Fenrir Greyback looked at him with loathing and fear.

It made sense that Lily Evans and James Potter were dead – after all, hadn't they been involved in one of the most dangerous Wizarding leagues in history? It made sense that Sirius was dead – he had always been reckless – and that Peter Pettigrew was a traitor. All your friends can't be loyal. It would defy the laws of nature.

And Albus Dumbledore had been ancient, kind, and wise. And he himself had said that the innocent always suffer and die first.

And sometimes Remus even made sense to himself. His father offended a werewolf, so they both had to pay the price. His father had stopped years before, but Remus was still alive and still had not finished with the price. He told himself that lycanthropy affects a certain number of Wizards a year, and it wasn't so strange that one of them was him. He was a quiet child, and became used to being alone.

But out of the blue he had a school and an understanding headmaster and friends, and it was happiness that was always out of order, and always caught him off guard.

Harry survived. Voldemort fell. Sirius wasn't the traitor, after all. And Nymphadora Tonks cheerfully bashed her way into his life and refused to go away, even when her cheer was gone and only persistence and love remained.

But sadness always intruded, too. Sirius was gone again; Voldemort returned; Albus Dumbledore had fallen, and the Wizarding world was in peril every moment.

So Remus was very surprised that he could be a little happy.

He ceased studying the face of the sleeping witch beside him, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would go back to fighting the war against Voldemort with every bit of the power he could muster, but for one quiet evening he could just feel peaceful. He and Nymphadora Tonks probably would not be able to just sit and talk until next month's illness, when he wasn't fit to be fighting and she somehow always managed to find time to fuss over him.

But that was tomorrow; now he did not have to think about it. A few hours of respite once every moon were not so much to ask, after all. All the things he had to do would still be there in the morning.

But Nymphadora Tonks would be too, most likely trying to make him toast and burning it horribly and then laughing and kissing him on the cheek.

And that was the most illogical thing of all.

_More bits and pieces will appear, unless I am suddenly and completely bereft of inspiration. _

_Reviews are very happy things. Can't you see them merrily trotting about in cyberspace, spreading good cheer where'er they are seen? _


	2. II: Dignity Is Relative

_Disclaimer: Don't own. Nope. _

_A/N: Random ficlet again…hope you enjoy! A slightly longer one is in the works._

_Dignity Is Relative _

He found that he dropped things more often.

Perhaps this was because of the strain. Or the lack of sleep. Or because he suddenly had more responsibility than he'd ever wanted and was still trying to remember how to breathe, sometimes. Or maybe because whenever he had a free moment, he'd find himself thinking about her, and habits rub off.

Not, of course, that he'd be charming his hair pink any time in the forseeable future. He was quite aware of the risks he was running, and dying in that condition seemed terribly undignified. It was fine on her – lovely, even – but Remus had _always_ kept at least a few tattered shreds of dignity, even when he'd nothing else.

It didn't provide as much comfort as novels would have one believe.

You can't talk to dignity, he would sometimes think. You can't ask it a question – do I need to mend this shirt, you think? – you couldn't tell it to be quiet and shove off on bad days. It was just there, and not very helpful at all.

But he kept it anyway.

So he was surprised to find himself dropping papers and mugs – he'd never had enough things to break them without much thought. Dignity wasn't constant, now. Sometimes, now, he would just collapse and he'd take care of him for a little while, not very long. It was good for both of them.

When Remus dropped his tea, now, he couldn't help but laugh.

_Review Responses:_

_**Banui:** Gladd you're not trotting despairingly towards any vats of cleaner, dear. And write! Do! I want to read it! Even if you don't post it, send it to me or something if you like! We could discuss IDEAS! (Repeat the: Write! mantra indefinately)_

_**Homeric:** Thank you! I liked that bit as well._

_**LupinsLady**: Thank you._

_**Crookshanks22**: Ah, looking at that passage I quite see what you mean...I may have to go back and tweak. Thanks ever so for the constructive criticism!_

_**sexyface:** Well, here is another. _

_** slightly so:** Here is a snippet, and more are coming._

_**iloveron:**__ 'Tis not really a story that develops, per se...'Tis drabbles and such, you see, which are all quite independent. Thanks for the review - you get an e-cookie for being the first to leave one. _


	3. III: Let Her Be

_A/N: This fic is set in early 1998. I felt like trying something a bit darker and less fluffy with regards to her and Remus' relationship. And I DO NOT own these people, or the lyrics at the top, or the poem referenced (The title of which I cannot recall, but it is by one of the lyricists of the English version of the musical Les Miserables. I believe it goes 'Nothing I say, nothing I do/Nothing I am can make you love me more.'). And that was most likely much more information than was needed._

_Let Her Be _

_Let her cry  
__Let the tears fall down like rain  
__Let her sing  
__If it eases all her pain –  
__Let her go...  
__And if the sun comes up tomorrow  
__Let her be._

_--Hootie and the Blowfish _

Nymphadora ought to have known this was coming.

She'd never really believed in fairy tales, and an almost-fairytale romance in the middle of a war was more than a little strange. But she had thought, never the less, that if she somehow made Remus understand, well, everything else would somehow be all right too.

She _was_ the young idealistic one, anyway.

Some ideals have been shattered; you don't reach twenty-five as an Auror without seeing horrors most of the population prefers not to think about. You don't reach twenty-five as a Metamorphmagus without learning some of the nastier sides of human nature. You don't reach twenty-five watching your unbalanced, innocent, tragic, unfinished cousin die without a trace or fall in love with his quiet friend the werewolf without understanding that life is horribly, horribly unfair.

You don't watch your great-aunt's portrait screaming at her dead son, you don't watch your own aunt fighting and killing her own family for the_ Dark Lord_ – lord of what? – without seeing that blood, blood binds everyone, and they may die for it.

Sometimes it's not personal. Muggle-born, half-blood, those are labels. But this part wasn't about blood, but family.

Dear Aunt Bellatrix had finally made it clear just how much a traitor she thought her sister was.

And the Dark Mark shone above the modest middle-class home where Ted Tonks had brought his pure-blood, rebelling, family-less bride when they'd been married a few years and didn't think there was anything more to fear.

She hears the report sent by a panicked neighbor while at work, and doesn't say a word.

"Tonks, Smythby, you two look into this, not that it sounds like there's much to do..."

She takes her orders and is gone.

The house is empty, she knows, and Nymphadora walks straight through the open door while Smythby is obliterating the Mark. He doesn't notice she has left.

They aren't in the hall. Nymphadora Tonks walks up the stairs to her old bedroom, and stands in the doorway. Aunt Bellatrix has taken time to destroy every sign that she existed in this house.

So Nymphadora turns – she's so very tired – and walks to her parents' room.

Andromeda was wearing a blue blouse and grey skirt; Ted had already changed into pajamas. The walls are scarred and burned; they fought. There is blood everywhere.

She'll remember this until her dying day.

And Nymphadora Tonks wakes up crying.

There's a slight noise, and the door opens a crack. It's Remus, of course. Just Remus, who for the past week and a half has been sleeping on her fold-out couch because company is painful and being alone is even worse.

"Nymphadora?"

She sits up, wiping her face with the sleeve of her nightshirt. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry. Dreaming, that's all."

Remus knows about dreams, and he comes and seats himself beside her. It's quiet; there's nothing to say. She knows he too lost everyone, once, but just now talking is beyond her.

It hurts too much to speak, and neither of them falls back asleep that night. They sit and wait for the dawn so they can start their days again.

Days pass, weeks. It's still quiet. Nymphadora understands Remus more then ever, now, but she simply cannot say it. It's easier to help than be helped, she finds. He didn't want to be, either. Now she knows.

And Remus hates to see her this way. He'd hoped that there had been enough pain in his life – that he would not have to see her go through this too. They both know all of this, but neither can speak. There is nothing he can say, nothing he can do. He can only watch, and let her be. A line from a Muggle poem he read years ago runs through his head. _Nothing that I am..._

They are caught like flies in amber, they are preserved exquisitely in ice that looks like crystal.

They wait – times are dark, dark – and the quiet goes on. Silence is painful; but they are together, and this does not hurt so much as speech.

He can only let her be.

_Fin_

_Must I really elaborate upon the utter spiffiness of reviews? (Speaking of which, responses to then will now be in the review system, since I have a vague notion this site's banned them in the body of a story.)_


	4. IV: The Hat Never Lies

_A/N: Very odd ficlet here: a double-drabblish contemplation on courage. Occurs after the inevitable defeat of Lord Voldie._

_The Hat Never Lies_

_ Their's not to reason why,  
Their's but to do and die:  
Into the valley of Death  
Rode the six hundred.  
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson  
_

The hat never lies.

It's dark out, long past midnight, but Remus sits in his dim kitchen and holds his cup of tea and thinks about hats.

(The hat never lies.)

Green and bronze and yellow and gold; he knows these colors as he knows his name. Cunning, wisdom, kindness, courage. How do you choose one? Why? What's fate – Harry talked to him about it, once, but he doesn't have a reason.

But the hat never lies, and so once Peter Pettigrew was brave.

Perhaps, like Remus' godson, it was what he chose. And Remus aches to know the difference between what you choose and what you are – there is one, somewhere, he's sure of it. You _are_ before you choose.

(The hat never lies.)

It's an old hat, a clever hat, it's sat upon the revered noggins of wizards far wiser than he. But he's never known Peter to be brave.

(What if you never live up to what you decide, then what?)

Duty must be done, debts must be paid, sometimes revenge is best left undone.

But Peter Pettrigrew only died because he had to. Green and blue and yellow and red; you can only be one – there must be courage somewhere.

He can't believe it, but he knows: the hat never lies.

_Fin_

_Yes, I know Peter is a cad, and not yet deceased. Forgive the artistic license taken; doesn't it seem likely tht he will have to repay his debt to Harry and die in the process?_

_Please do review! _


	5. V: Shades of Gray

_A/N: More post-war angst.  
_

_Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. Please don't sue._

Shades of Gray

_I thought that I heard you laughing   
I thought that I heard you sing,   
I think I thought I saw you try; _

_But that was just a dream_

_  
That was just a dream. _

_--Michael Stipe_

The silence of it all almost hurts her, sometimes.

Nymphadora Lupin doesn't wake up in the middle of the night anymore, startled into consciousness by alarms and messages. She doesn't watch the moon from her solitary flat's window, hoping that her Remus was all right for one more month. She doesn't have to be life any more. She can let her hair fade, she can let everything go, and it isn't important.

There is nothing left to fight.

She is glad. The peace is what she'd wanted all her life. But now her purpose is gone. The things wrong with the world now aren't ones she can change.

It hurts her, every full moon, watching her husband weaken and suffer. He's been resigned to it for years now. She accepts it, loves him for his resignation...that doesn't mean she has to like it.

-&-

He's almost happy, now.

Remus Lupin doesn't wonder whether each full moon will be his last. He doesn't wonder what atrocities he may commit with Greyback's pack. He doesn't spend every morning after his transformation in the wild, trying not to retch as he searches through the fragments of his memories.

He's married, not quite respectable. After all, his wife is thirteen years younger than he, with a penchant for odd hair colors, and spends her days doing paperwork, wrapping up the very last cases of the very last Death Eaters. He's working on a book. It's not a memoir – heaven forbid. Let _Hairy Snout, Human Heart _fill that literary slot.

He's writing about teaching, under a pseudonym. Of course, Remus only taught for a year, but he kept meticulous notes while he did. He's always liked children.

But something's missing. Sometimes there's an ache inside of him that just doesn't go away.

One day his wife comes home, sits down on the sagging sofa, and bursts into tears.

Remus is beside her with three paces, and holds her until she stops sobbing and starts hiccupping instead. Nymphadora never bothers with attempts to be dignified.

"What happened?" he asks. Because it's obvious that something did. She's not the damp type, generally.

She conjures a handkerchief, and blows her nose. "It's so stupid, Remus." There's a pause, and she pushes her hair – long and dark today – behind her ear. "This poor bloke, barely out of Hogwarts, got frightened into joining the Death Eaters. He never _did_ anything, never even got the Mark. Someone had a grudge against him, and tipped us off...we don't have a choice to investigate things like that, now. But his mother came in today – he's lined up for _Azkaban._ It's such – a – bloody – waste." She pounds her hand into the arm of the sofa. "After seeing what it did to Sirius...All right, he isn't totally innocent, but he doesn't deserve that. No one – not many do."

"Oh, love..." There's nothing he can do, and so he strokes her back as soothingly as he can, and tries not to think of all the lives this war and this peace have ruined.

"It's just idiotic," she continues. "The Ministry was in denial for a _year_ after You-Know – Voldemort – returned, but now roots out every single thing ever to do with him, not caring about anything else. It's just...I thought peace would mean no more of this."

"I know," he answers, softly. "It's almost more justifiable when there _is_ a war on."

"And there's nothing," she continues, "there's _nothing_ that I can bloody well do."

There is never anything either of them can do, these days.

-&-

When it's dark out and her husband is asleep, Nymphadora Lupin looks at the ceiling and tries to remember times when the dark was clear; when the night is invading, you only need to know how to light a candle.

When the faintest edge of dawn is spreading in the east and his wife is asleep, Remus Lupin thinks about life in everlasting shades of gray, gray with a few unexpected streaks of color, and tried to remember the days when it was black and white, or longer ago, when it had all the shades found in a summer's day.

But even the brightest days have shadows.

_Fin_

Please review! I love reviews, really I do.


	6. VI: Bled Dry

_Disclaimer: I do not own them, I never will. The world of HP is the intellectual property of Ms. Rowling. Alas.  
_

_A/N: Hello again! This ficlet has no specific setting, other than occurring in the winter of 1996/7. Surprisingly, it was written entirely within a 24-hour period. Hope you enjoy it. _

Bled Dry

Nymphadora Tonks was exhausted; completely, unutterably, mind-numbingly exhausted. She'd taken a double shift, which stretched to two and a half. And the Dementors were growing hungry – it could be felt all too clearly. Any scraps of hope or cheer she might've possessed had been gently, inexorably taken, leaving her bleached, bone-dry and fragile. It would take time before she could gather _any_ of her protective airiness and unquenchable clumsiness about her again.

Nymphadora Tonks was exhausted; so exhausted that she fell onto her bed before she remembered to take off her boots. She blearily tugged at them, and then pulled a blanket around herself. She didn't drift off to sleep – she plunged the way people might off a tipping ship at sea.

It was only a few hours later that she woke, too tired and too worn to sleep soundly. Nymphadora Tonks got up and made herself a cup of tea, then sat on her bed again and looked out the window. It was cold and clear out, and the stars startlingly visible. And because it was dark, and because she was tired enough to give in, she decided to open her bureau drawer and read the letter. It was the only one she had.

_Dearest Nymphadora,_

_I do not want to continue fighting. Please understand me – I am doing my stupid chauvinistic best to protect you. I love you so._

_Remus_

That wasn't what it said, of course. It was polite and formal and despairing – it was the way Remus always sounded when he was hurt and trying to keep everything from rushing out of control. It was Remus as he rarely sounded around her, but she knew him well enough to read what he really meant, even if he didn't know it himself.

And because it was dark out, because she was too heartsick _not_ too, she pulled out her incongruous lime-green parchment and purple ink, and slowly began to fill the page with words that seemed to her better written in black.

_Remus-_

_I am never going to send this. It is going to sit in my drawer, and get faded and worn and dusty. Or perhaps I'll add to it until I see you again, and then keep writing anyway. Or maybe I'll burn it._

_I rather like that idea._

_But Remus – dearest Remus – I don't think I actually will. It's as if you're almost here, now. And another thing: I never thought I'd call someone, or think of someone, as 'dearest'. It sounded fusty. But it's true – you are, to me._

_Hah. I never thought I was the sentimental love-letter-writing type, either. I always laughed my head off at the drippy rubbish all my Hogwarts roommates read. But then, that was when my idea of complete happiness was marrying the Weird Sisters drummer. _

_You know, I can _see_ your expression right now. Amused and a little bit consternated. Mostly amused, though. _

_Stop it. I was a _teenager.

_Oh, damn. You know you're lying to yourself. This isn't an infatuation, and I – well, I'm not going anywhere. Not if I can help it._

_And because I'll never send this, and because it's late at night, and I miss you like hell, and my hands are already covered in ink, I can be sentimental. I can remember the times when you laughed, and Sirius was alive and happy. Or maybe not happy – I don't know that he ever really was. Merlin knows he got little enough practice at it in life. I hope death's kinder to him. _

_So, perhaps they weren't the good times. We haven't had any. I was just glad to take what we did. Even you aren't a good enough liar to make yourself believe that what went on was only born of boredom and frustration and stress. Or if you are, I'm frankly quite impressed. _

_No, I'm not. I want to cry, and scream, or hit something, or hold you until you admit the truth. You know I love you – you know two heads are better than one. I might knock you flat doing it, but I could watch your back and never let anyone harm you – that's happened too much before. More than anything I want you safe, the same as you want me. You are too thick to see we'd both be all right together._

_And because I am never going to send this letter, I can say that things are falling apart._

_It was a full moon last week. You know that, of course. And I was so worried about you – so damn worried – that I did several very stupid things on the job. It's a wonder I haven't been fired – I can't morph, I can't concentrate. I'm hardly good for anything._

_You want me to be happy, without you. Well, Remus, I can't do it. Tomorrow I'll think about you, and the day after, and the day after that, and…I don't know. I just don't know, these days – I've been bleeding myself dry for you. Maybe once it seems like everything is gone I'll be able to pretend I'm fine. But, Remus, even if I try to be happy as things are, the way you wanted, it isn't going to work. _

_I need you back. _

Nymphadora Tonks, more exhausted than she could ever remember being, put down her quill. She blinked, hard – her eyes felt gritty. Without thinking of the ink stains she was leaving on the bedclothes she curled up and slowly, achingly fell asleep.

This time she didn't wake until Puffskein-shaped alarm clock began its morning routine.

She didn't read the letter again – just put it in the drawer, which she closed. She washed the tea mug from last night and made herself another cup. She went about her day and tried not to think. The hours and weeks sped on, alternating stillness and blurring speed. But she'd stopped crying; Nymphadora Tonks was too exhausted. There was nothing left for tears, because she had been bled dry.

_Finis_

_Reviews are one of the lights of my life. Please illuminate the dim existence of a humble student, I beg of you._


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